


I Can't Find the Light in this Blinding Dark

by GhostCwtch



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: BDSM overtones, Captivity, Clint is a very messed up person, D/s overtones, Dark, M/M, PTSD, Phil is also messed up, Torture, Trauma, hard of hearing character, hypersexuality as a coping mechanism, not dealing with issues, please god don't take this as sound psychiatric advise, really unrealistic recovery times, semi-Stockholm Syndrome actions, unhealthy realtionship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostCwtch/pseuds/GhostCwtch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Phil Coulson rescues Clint Barton after four months of being held captive, he doesn't know much about falconry. He doesn't know that the only way to really tame a hawk is to trust it to fly free, to trust it to come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The whump of the chopper blades to bring you home.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePeak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePeak/gifts).



> Please god, pay attention to the tags. The non-con happens off screen, but the fall out will be very much a part of the story. The gore is more threatened than actual, but I know I appreciate a warning. This is not going to be a healthy relationship, and Phil is in no way prepared to deal with the psychological fall out of Clint's captivity. I do not recommend treating actual victims of abuse/trauma/rape in this way, this is purely a fictional world with characters that dance simply to my whims. That said, I have tried to be tasteful and make the reasoning behind their actions understandable and fairly rational if not necessarily logical.
> 
> Also, if you think there is something I should be warning for and haven't, please let me know. I have tried to think of everything that might be triggering to someone, but I'm human and I make mistakes. If you point them out, I am 100% happy to correct things.

"When I heard the mighty Hawkeye was to be my guest, I must admit that I spared no expense on the preparations. After all, one must be willing to spend the time and effort to break an animal to hand, and that includes spending the necessary money on proper equipment, don't you find?"  
  
He is not an animal.  
  
What's humiliating about this is that whoever this guy is that got the drop on Clint is so beneath his radar that Clint doesn't have a clue. No dossier was ever presented and no connections are obvious from the bare concrete of the isolated cell he's currently smearing blood onto the floor of.  He snarls at the man around the bit gag that the guards had shoved between his teeth before their boss entered, arms straining against the thin leather straps wound round his arms from fingertips to shoulder blades.  
  
"Yes, I can see you're going to be a fighter. No matter, I have read something about the taming of hawks and I know that you must start off with the hood."  
  
Every muscle locks as the man shows what is clearly a human sized hood in the style used for sporting birds. It's dark leather and Clint knows that once it's on he won't be able to get it off again with his arms tied like this.  
  
He won't be able to see.

If he let's them get that hood on him, he isn't going to be able to get out. The little escapology he picked up at the circus isn't going to be enough without his sight to tell him when it's safe to try it and fuck he can't believe Trickshot sold him like some kind of fucking animal.  
  
At least he didn't tell them that Clint is practically deaf. Then these bastards would know exactly how helpless he'd be with that hood on but it doesn't matter and he isn't thinking about it because he can't let that happen.  
  
There's a sudden pinch at the crook of his neck and shoulder and Clint has just enough time to roll his eyes up to the guard he couldn't hear coming up behind him before whatever drug they injected takes effect and the world goes dark and soft.

 

* * * * 

 

Clint is still floating on the fog of drugs when he comes to. Warm leather is pressing along his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Before he can think, can remember why everything is bad, why he should be fighting this, he relaxes into the dark and the pressure and the deep quiet of his mind when he doesn't have to see or hear or think.

 

“Awake, little hawk?”

 

The breath against his ear smells sour and Clint knows that he can only hear the warning at all because the man happens to be on his marginally better left side. He tries to jerk away but the ties on his arms have been secured to a raised metal ring in the floor of what must be a new room.

 

The man continues, but he's too quiet and moving away as well, so Clint has no indication that it's coming when the burning pain of electric currents arc across his skin. He might be screaming. His throat hurts like he is, and his eyes are wide and watering behind the hood, and he can't hear anything at all over the pounding in his head and heart.

 

* * * * *

 

Locating Clint Barton in connection with the investigation into his brother's death has thus far been an exercise in frustration. Phil Coulson is not accustomed to being denied his intelligence needs and the fact that he has been following Barton's trail for nearly four months now has Phil right at the far edge of his tether.

 

No little shit from the circus should be this hard to find.

 

It's only when he's looking at another file to give his brain a break that he manages to find even half a hint as to where Clint has gone. He knows from his research that Barton went by “The Amazing Hawkeye” at the circus and his contact with a truly aggravating sector of organized crime has provided transcripts of phone calls securing supplies for “the boss's new pet hawk.” Supplies that were often custom made, human sized, restraints.

 

Lifting his phone, Phil decided that a nice little recon trip would be just the vacation he needed, and if it turned out that Barton was being held well, two birds, one stone.

 

* * * * * *

 

All he can do is breathe. The pain comes in waves and it is all that he knows. Part of him feels that there was once something beyond the darkness and the shattered feeling of his nerves jangling like fucking church bells. 

 

All he knows for certain is that he hurts and he hates the person who holds the other end of the mews jesses. He hates the hood and hates the jesses and thinks he may have once been more than he is.

 

* * * * *

 

Phil has been on the ground for less than twenty minutes and already he desperately wants to maim, if not out right kill, his contact. The guy is babbling on and on about how much of a monster the boss is. That he's had some kid for months and has been using every trick in the book, with special pains taken with electricity, but still the kid won't break, won't give the boss what he wants. On and on and on and if the kid isn't Barton, Phil will eat his very expensive shoes.

 

The again, it would be helpful if Barton has been hiding out somewhere instead of being tortured beyond all usefulness.

 

“Yes, I understand. It is my intention to see to the situation, however you have yet to answer my very simple question of guard rotation so that I know _when_ I can safely do so.”

 

“Ah, um, well the kid is mostly left alone these days. Not really in any position to run, y'know? They check on him around seven at night, see if he's managed to eat anything, and then leave him alone until around six in the morning when they go in to clean him up before the boss goes in for the morning session. That can last anywhere from - “

 

“I don't need to know how long it lasts. I'll contact you again if I have any further questions.”

 

He strides away before he gives in to the urge to punch his contact in the face. He's more convinced than before that this kid is Barton and he pulls his phone free to dial Fury's secure line.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Agent Coulson, tell me you have something.”

 

“I believe I have located the younger of the Barton brothers, however he's spent the better part of the last four months being severely tortured by a particularly psychotic, but otherwise low ranking and aggravating mob boss.”

 

“I see. Usefulness on his brother's case?”

 

“Unlikely. However, sir, I would request authorization to proceed with the extraction.”

 

“Coulson?”

 

“I am due for some vacation time, sir.”

 

He could hear Fury's amusement through the line. “And you want to spend it rehabbing some circus nobody? On your head be it then, Coulson. You can have six months starting when your feet hit American soil and then I want a status report. This kid was known for marksmanship. See if there's anything left we can work with.”

 

“Understood, sir.” 

 

Phil holds the phone in his hand for a long moment after the call disconnects. There's no reason for him to waste his vacation time on Barton, assuming he's correct and it is Barton being held here. It's just, he's been on the other side of that. A no body with no family or friends to come for him. At least he'd had the training to deal with it and had the vague hope that what was left of his unit might be coming for him.

 

As far as Phil knows, he's the only one Barton has, and Barton won't know that for at least another three hours. 

 

* * * * *

 

He can smell potatoes. He thinks they might be mashed, but really there's no way of knowing unless he manages to curl over far enough to reach the plate. Assuming they actually put the plate in front of him this time. Sometimes, most of the time, he has to twist until he can lay on his belly and writhe around, nosing the floor like a dog, searching for whatever scraps are being thrown his way to keep him alive.

 

There's a flicker that says once he would have been too proud for this, that he wouldn't eat from a plate on the floor, that he had been above this. Now, he is too hungry and tired and all he knows is darkness and pain so any food he can find, anything he can do to relieve even a tiny part of his suffering, he does, he takes.

 

The potatoes are mashed. He thinks there may have actually been butter involved in the preparation and it's not long at all before he's licking the plate, chasing the last tastes around the rim. He knows that they'll be back in a moment to take the plate and then he'll be alone for a stretch of hours that are almost worse than when the man who holds his jesses is here. 

 

At least someone listens to him scream when the man is here.

 

* * * * *

 

Waiting for the guards to finish taunting their prisoner with his scrupulously clean plate, calling him dog and bitch and cur, is boring within the first minute. It does give Phil a very important piece of intel that had managed to escape Barton's file, though.

 

Barton is deaf.

 

Maybe not completely, he nearly reacts to some louder sounds on his left side, but generally normal speaking volume seems to be too quiet for his range. Complications to an already fairly tricky extraction are really the last thing Phil wants or needs but he didn't get to wear he is by shirking what he sees as his responsibility, and certainly not by ditching missions in the middle because he didn't like something about how they were going.

 

He'd like to be able to just remove the leather hood that has rubbed raw marks into Barton's skin, but if he's truly been wearing it for four months, which seems likely, the light is likely to be painful at best and actually damaging if Phil is unlucky.

 

Phil doesn't really believe in luck.

 

* * * * * *

 

There's a break and then someone is in the room with him. He doesn't want to admit the truth to himself, but he knows that he's broken to this routine just like all the others. The guards only come back down if they know the boss is gone for a day or two, know they can get away with having their own fun with the “little hawk.”

 

Tears are already slipping down his face to burn in the raw wounds on his face. He shuffles on his knees, twisting his hips through the narrow gap between his arms so they're in font of him and kneeling down again, pressing his forehead to the metal ring. 

 

He hopes this guard will be quick.

 

There's the white noise of someone talking, too quiet for him to make out any words, and then cool metal is pressing between the leather of the jess and his right hand. There's a sharp tug and the leather slithers free, and he feels like he's been punched in the gut. When the second jess gives, he scrambles away until he collides head first with an unforgiving wall.

 

Slumping against it, he pulls his legs in towards his chest and pants, panics, and remembers that there was a time like this before, and that he needs to run but cannot see.

 

The hands, when they come and he should have known that they would, are gentle. They pull him from the solidarity of the wall and into the chest of a man, and while they hold him there even as he shudders, they don't slide down towards his ass and they don't tighten enough to bruise. It almost hurts worse and he doesn't understand.

 

He licks cracked lips and pants out “wh-wh...wh-”

 

Lips brush the shell of his ear. “Clint.” The voice says, loud enough for him to hear it. His name. His name is Clint. He remembers that now that someone has told it to him again. “Clint, I'm here to take you home.”

 

He shudders against the chest, arms hanging limp, and hacks out a rough approximation of a laugh. Home? He's never had a home.

 

* * * * *

 

The kid, Barton, makes a horrible choking sound and for a moment Phil is worried the shock is killing him and this whole mission has been a waste of time. Then he realizes that it's laughter, Barton is laughing at him on the floor of the cell where he's been tortured, and he's laughing.

 

He pulls the younger man closer, noting that Barton isn't using his newly freed arms at all, before lifting him carefully. As under fed as he is, and with as long as he's likely spent tied in mostly the same position, it's unlikely that Barton would be able to walk out under his own power, even if Phil was willing to let him try. The halls are deserted as Phil leaves with his objective well in hand and for once, he doesn't feel compelled to investigate just what the missing guards are up to.

 

He just wants to get Barton free of this place and back on American soil where he can be looked after.

 

 

* * * * * * *

 

By the time Phil gets to the extraction point, carrying a completely limp Barton over one shoulder, he is tired, hot, and extremely cranky. He wants his boots to be back on American turf _yesterday_ and wants medics to have been on Barton's case an hour ago. He'd had to bring the kid with the hood and jesses in place, much to his disgust, because the light was too much after four months in darkness and the kid had panicked when Phil had tried to take him out of the room without the jesses.

 

Once Phil had managed to calm him down he'd muttered something about certain lessons being well learned and Phil knew that if he wanted to catch his evac, he wouldn't be able to listen to more until he had Barton far away from anyone who had hurt him. He'd compromised by looping each jess loosely around Barton's wrists, careful to avoid the raw lines where the leather had been rubbing before. It hurt to see Barton go limp as they went through the door, and Phil was struggling not to imagine what other “lessons” he'd been taught.

 

He sets Barton down gently to lean against an air conditioning unit while they wait for the helicopter to arrive. The kid hasn't responded to anything since leaving the room, and Phil suspects that he's gone into the early stages of shock. There's not much he can do until their pick up comes, but he does locate the radio he stashed up here before the op.

 

“Sigma Three, this is Agent twenty-twenty-six, do you copy.”

 

“Sigma Three, copy Twenty-twenty-six.”

 

“Package has been acquired, suspected shock, known injuries include lacerations to arms and face as well as suspected nerve damage to extremities and moderate to severe electrical burns. Please advise medic. Note, package is mostly deaf and will not react to audio cues.”

 

“Copy that, twenty-twenty-six. Advising medic. Approaching position, ETA five minutes.”

 

“Copy that, Sigma Three.”

 

Phil can hear the approaching _whump_ of the chopper blades and turns to heave Barton back onto his shoulder for the pick up. The kid has managed to wedge himself between the air conditioning unit and the wall protecting the stair well, and is shaking so hard his teeth are rattling. Sighing, Phil crouches down in front of the narrow opening.

 

“Clint.”

 

Nothing.

 

“Barton.”

 

Nothing. Okay then, third time's the charm.

 

“Hawkeye!”

 

The reaction instantly tells Phil that he just made the exact wrong call. The kid freezes, lips pressing together until they're white, and his hands shake so the ends of the jesses writhe on the ground like snakes caught on the end of a spear. Phil is just about to try and squeeze himself into the gap, and really how did Barton manage to fit in there, when the kid starts to talk in the dull monotone Phil recognizes from his own run-ins with the more coercive forms of questioning.

 

“I am not an animal. I'm not an animal. I'm not a pet and I'm not an animal. I'm not an animal.”

 

Phil raises his voice, his throat already hurting from the unaccustomed strain, “No, Clint, I know that. You are not an animal, and you are not a pet.” Barton tilts his head to the right, trying to zero in on Phil's location using his good side and Phil keeps talking. “We're on the roof of a truly foul butcher shop waiting for extraction, which I find to be incredibly poor taste but since the director is letting me run everything else my way, I didn't lodge a formal complaint. It's been four months, give or take, since you were taken so you missed all the really awful Spring weather and get to enjoy the summer sun, or will do once we've got your injuries sorted out. I let the medics know that they need to either bring you a hearing aid or speak loudly and clearly so that you can know what they're doing. I know when I was found I didn't like anyone touching me without permission, but that does get better, a little bit.”

 

The kid unfurls from the ball he's turned into, leaning ever so slightly towards Phil, and he's sure that he could coax Barton out if he had the time but the chopper is there and they need to go so he does the first thing that pops into his head for getting Barton moving. 

 

He grabs the trailing ends of the jesses and tugs.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The jesses are pulled and Clint falls into his programming. He knows that trying to fight will lead to pain and the threat of having his fingers removed with bolt cutters. “Clip your wings, little hawk. I'll do it. You know it, so don't fight me. Don't ever fight me and when you're good and broken, I'll fly you to my fist.” He staggers after the man, and for once he's not being pulled to fast to follow and the jesses aren't pressing into open cuts or numbing his hands with their tightness. 

 

It's almost like there's someone else controlling them, but that can't be right, can't be true. He thinks he'd like that though, if it happened. He's already so hurt, so close to breaking completely, that he can't really think of not being tied, of not having someone there to tell him what he needs to do. But someone kind holding the other end of his jess? That's like someone else's dream.

 

There's a subdued, rhythmic whumping from up ahead, and Clint pauses before he can think of the potential consequences. Instead of a sharp tug on the cords, or a smack to the face, a callused hand smooths gently over the exposed skin of his forearm. He shivers and leans into it, the first kind touch since before he was taken, and when the gentle pressure returns to his bonds, he follows willingly. There's no way that this is the man who took him, it has to be someone new, and something within him says that he's correct in thinking that.

 

If those hands will just keep touching him gently, he'll follow anywhere they lead.

 

*** *** ***

 

After a brief hesitation, getting Barton onto the chopper is simple. He follows the tugs on his jesses docilely and when Phil sits next to him, carefully bracing Barton's back against his chest so as not to place any undue stress on potentially unseen injuries, the younger man practically melts against him. 

 

They're half an hour out from the base when Phil realizes that the kid is asleep.

 

Barton must have been completely exhausted to fall asleep in the presence of an unknown. Phil is already mentally drafting plans for helping along with the recovery process, which he fully expects to be both long and painful. The most important thing to get started on is easing Clint free of the hood. A few hours at low light levels to start with, gradually increasing both duration and brightness until he can tolerate normal lighting conditions. Maybe medical will be able to provide darker tinted sunglasses than those generally available. From what Phil knows of Barton's pre-capture life, he was something of a marksman, and that would be a skill Phil would like to preserve.

 

In his sleep, Clint's brows are furrowed and his hands twitch restlessly, even as the rest of his body remains utterly still. Nightmares are another obstacle Phil anticipates dealing with, but he had hoped that they'd at least make it to the safe house before they needed to. He raises the hand not clutching Barton to his chest to rub gently at the edge where the hood presses into the back of Barton's skull.

 

He can tell the moment the kid wakes up by the tension that thrums through the muscles that had just been slack against his chest and thighs. Phil sighs out a breath, stirring the short hairs that aren't covered and Clint shudders in his hold.

 

“Please.” He chokes. “I'll be good, please no, please, I'm sorry, I won't fight.”

 

It dawns on Phil like a hammer blow to the skull. Barton thinks he's going to be raped. He thinks he's still in that place and that Phil is going to rape him. Swallowing back bile, Phil wants to let go, wants to let Barton scramble away from him into a dark safe corner and wait until the fear is not clouding reactions on either side, but he can't. Not until they're safely on the ground which is another ten, fifteen, minutes away.

 

Instead, he moves his free hand from the back of Barton's head to just in front of his nose. He knows that in this moment his hands will smell of blood and leather and dirt, which are all scents that Barton has to associate with his cell, but underneath that will be gun powder and the sharp sting of hand sanitizer that Phil is a little bit obsessed with. He's trusting that Barton will be able to pick up on that underlying scent, that he'll be able to pull himself out of this when Phil can't help him.

 

* * * * * *

 

He wants to shake apart, fears that he is, with the chest and thighs pressing against his own and while there's not a hardness pressing against his ass yet, it's only a matter of time in his experience. It's better if he can go somewhere else in his head, back to the empty space in the big tent when he'd practice for hours, just the steady stretch and pull of the string, the thrum of the arrow slicing through the air. He's trying to disconnect when he senses a hand in front of his face, close enough that he can feel the heat of it and he nearly flinches away before the scents burn their way into his nose.

 

Antiseptic. Like a hospital. Gun powder, from a semi-automatic, not a revolver and it's only from the flavour of the casing that makes enough of a difference for him to tell. If he had his eyes, he probably wouldn't be able to, but he's been relying on his nose for months now. It's been all he has had and he's learned to trust it and it's telling him that this is not a guard and he is not in that place. 

 

Focusing on his breathing, Clint unlocks each muscle group one at a time, hissing in pain as the over taxed muscles in his arms scream at him, even as he relaxes into the warmth of the man who must've been the one who got him out of that cell. His hands fidget, a habit he's picked up since they were the only part he could comfortably move, and he traces the leather of his jesses, following to see who holds the leash now. It's a bit of a strain to reach up to the ends, and he finds them in the hand that is pressed against his chest, holding him to his rescuer. 

 

The breath he's just caught is knocked right back out of him. He is living someone else's dream, those gentle hands were the ones that held him, that led him to this place. The chest and thighs against his own are suddenly supportive instead of threatening, and Clint clutches the muscular forearm he has hold of. He might be, he could actually be safe now. If this isn't a trick, he might be safe.

 

“...name?” He can't hear his own voice, weak as it is, but thinks that he's at least understandable.

 

Lips brush his ear and there's a tickle of breath. His rescuer must be near shouting to be heard over the _whump-whump-whump_ of whatever surrounds them, but it's still barely loud enough for Clint to pick up, coming as it does from his right. “Phil. My name is Phil Coulson.”

 

* * * * * *

 

The trip to the safe house, a location much more familiar and comfortable than the separate apartment that Phil keeps solely for appearances, passes by in a blur of crashing adrenaline. The other members of the retrieval team separate out leaving Phil to deal with Barton as he sees fit. Barton is more than dragging and Phil would love to just let the kid collapse on a bed for the next however long but the thought of all that filth on nice clean sheets goes against everything Phil's mother and the military have drilled into him over the years.

 

“Bathroom first.”

 

Barton doesn't react, other than to follow docilely where the jesses lead him, staggering with exhaustion. Phil strips himself down first, the tile floor cool against his bare feet. Glancing around, he gauges the light filtering in through the window to be dim enough that they can risk removing the hood so that Barton can at least help in the process of getting clean.

 

“Clint, you've got four months worth of cell floor all over you, and to be honest you smell like a captive too. I wouldn't even want you sleeping on the floor right now, so we're going to have to at least rinse you off. Now, it's just bright enough for me to see what I'm doing in here, I haven't turned any of the actual lights on, and so we're going to get that hood off you, and maybe see what we can do about finding something else to help until your eyes can adjust to normal light levels again, okay?” Phil's throat feels strained from all the shouting he's been doing, but it's worth it to keep Barton informed.

 

After a long moment of silence, Barton seems to clue in to the fact that Phil won't be doing anything without his permission and give a jerky nod. Letting go of the jesses to reach for the hood feels like a risk, and the way Barton tenses as Phil begins to loosen it only cements that feeling. He gets to the point where he can slip it off and cringes as it pulls at the scabbed skin along Barton's cheekbones.

 

“Sorry about that, we'll definitely find something else for your eyes. Give this a chance to heal.”

 

Barton still has his eyes pressed tight, brows furrowing with the pressure he's exerting. He looks like he's bracing for a blow. Phil takes hold of the jesses again, remembering the effect they've shown before, continuing “It's okay, you can open your eyes, but if it's still too bright in here, don't force it. We don't want to accidentally cause permanent damage.”

 

The kid's eyes slit open and the first thing he does is look at Phil's face like it might hold answers of some sort.

 

* * * * * *

 

Phil has a kind face. That's the first thought Clint has, and he tries to ignore how pathetic he is for already being half in love with a government suit just because it's the first kindness he's had in what feels like forever. It means more than it should that Phil's face is the first thing he sees, and after a moment, it's too much and he has to drop his gaze to stare at the off-white tile.

 

Shudders wrack through his body and the salt of tears stings in the wounds on his face. Phil's free hand comes to rest gently on his shoulder and leads him to stand in the shower stall. The first touch of the water makes him jerk back, only the familiar pressure from the jesses keeps him from bolting out right. Phil steps in as well, and Clint lets himself focus on trailing his eyes over the scars dotting the other man, ignoring that every time in recent memory when he's been naked in the presence of another person it's ended in pain for him.

 

Phil gave him back his sight, even if it's only for a little while, and got him out of that place, so Clint is going to ignore the terror clenching in his gut as best he can. Phil manoeuvres him under the spray, nudging him into place with his body and staying pressed lightly against him even as he soaps Clint down. It's surprisingly reassuring, to be able to lean into the lean strength Phil had been hiding under the suit.

 

They're hardly in the shower for more than ten minutes before Clint has to slide down to sit against the shower wall. His legs are cramping viciously, unused to the effort it takes to stand after so long on his knees in one way or another. Phil doesn't comment, just uses the new position to rub shampoo into Clint's hair, massaging along his scalp. It's all he can do not to purr as the sweat and grime that was trapped under the hood rinses free, Phil being careful to keep any suds from getting in his eyes.

 

Between the warm water and gentle hands, Clint can feel his body beginning to respond. He pulls his knees in towards his chest, trying to hide it, but unable to contain a quiet whimper. Phil shuts the water off and it's silent but for the water dripping to the floor.

 

“It's alright, I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but we need to get you out of here and dried off so you can get some sleep.”

 

Phil steps out of the shower to grab several overly fluffy towels, wrapping one around his waist before wrapping another around Clint. He's careful to keep hold of the very end of the jesses, which Clint appreciates more than he can really express. He needs that little bit of restraint to remain constant right now, and he doesn't know how long that'll be true. He likes to think that Phil will hold him for as long as he needs it.

 

* * * * * 

 

Clean, Barton looks even younger, wide grey eyes staring up as he huddles in the towel. Phil's been called a baby sitter agent before and for once he can almost agree with that because all he wants to do is take care of Barton until he doesn't look like he's waiting to wake up from a wonderful dream.

 

“Let's get you into bed. It's been a long day for both of us.”

 

Coaxing Barton out of the shower stall, it isn't until they're at the door to the bathroom that Phil remembers about his eyes. He looks over at the hood in disgust, it's coated in dirt and blood and who knows what else. Phil plans on burning the thing as soon as an opportunity arrives. He didn't really plan ahead as to what to use to protect Clint's eyes. Glancing around, he lands his gaze on his tie. 

 

Well, it'll do.

 

“Clint, we have to cover your eyes, at least until the R&D department finishes the sunglasses they're making for you. That should just be another couple days but until then we'll figure something out that works better than my tie.”

 

The kid's lips twitch like he wants to smile, but doesn't remember how it works. “Your tie?” His voice is slurring with exhaustion.

 

“I didn't exactly plan for anything beyond getting cleaned up.”

 

Clint's lips twitch again before he leans forward so Phil can tie it over his eyes. He immediately starts to shake, tiny twitches running trough his muscles like it's all he can do to not rip it from his face. Phil gathers the jesses and wraps another towel around Clint's shoulders before leading him to the spare bedroom.

 

* * * * *

 

He's been alone for ten minutes in the silent dark, and while the press of Phil's tie is grounding, he can feel how free his arms are. The bed is too soft and the sheets smell like laundry detergent and dust. Even the air in the room is wrong, moving around freely instead of practically suffocating him with the stench of blood.

 

As tired as he is, Clint can't sleep.

 

He taps his fingertips ever so lightly against the cool silk of the tie over his eyes. He wants to take it off, but Coulson said not to and while that wouldn't normally be a good enough reason to obey, there's also the fear that he might fall asleep with it off and that the morning light could damage his eyes. Still, the bed isn't going to work out and he rolls carefully onto the floor.

 

Better. His spine feels supported now, not like in the evil, he's sure it's evil, squishiness of the bed. And, if he rolls just _so_ , he can lie under the bed which feels more secure than he would've thought now that he's down here. Even better than the closet, which was going to be his next thought if this didn't feel safer. Here there are multiple exit points.

 

Clint nestles into the carpet, crosses his arms over his chest and his legs, one over the other, and he's asleep between one breath and the next.

 

* * * * * *

 

It's not screams that wake him, but silence. The lack of sound is breathless, like being out on the Gulf when a hurricane is about to blow in. Phil knows in the moment he startles awake that this is not a quiet to be trusted, and he ghosts out of his room on steps as soft as a cat's to check the perimeter.

 

He does the outer edges first, searching for signs of an intruder, before systematically working his way back in towards the center. Just in case, he saves Clint's room for last. When he pokes his head in, Phil has a moment of utter panic at the sight of the empty bed before he registers the sound of harsh breathing coming from under it. Sighing, because if he'd stopped to think instead of just reacting then of course he'd have figured that the bed wouldn't be a comfortable place after so long without one, Phil edges into the room and moves out of the way of the door to sit against one wall. 

 

“Clint.” He keeps his voice calm and level, trying for a balance between loud enough that Barton can hear him while being soft enough to not startle him. “You're safe now. We're in the safe house and I've done a perimeter check. No one else is here and while you might not trust me yet I will promise you that I will never harm you.”

 

The breaths from beneath the bed hitch slightly, and when Clint replies, his voice is cracking, full of tears. “I wanna take this tie off my fucking face.”

 

“Okay, that's fine. It's not morning yet so there shouldn't be enough light to hurt your eyes. I'll push R&D about those sunglasses for you in the morning.”

 

There's rustling from under the bed and when Clint pokes his head out, he's wearing a fairly impressive glare. “Why are you doing this, _Phil_? What are you getting out of this? And don't try and pull any, 'Oh I help all those I can' Captain America bullshit with me. No one does anything for free.”

 

"Well, as a fighter for hire, you've made something of a name for yourself. Hawkeye, the one who never misses a shot. The organisation I work for can always use that kind of talent and even if you don't want a job, it'd be a waste to see you taken out by some one so low on the totem pole. Your mentor sold you out and your brother was gone before that." When Clint starts at the mention of his brother, Coulson smirks, "Yes, we're well aware of Barney, I've actually been working on a case involving him and the FBI recently, but we don't have any leads. That's why I was looking for you in the first place. I thought you might be able to provide some insight into his habits, or failing that, try and warn him somehow and possibly lead us to him that way."

 

Clint snorts through his nose.

 

"Yes, well. That was before I met you." Phil's tone is rueful. "You're much more interesting as a possible asset and I think it's a better fit for you as well."

 

"So that's all I am to you? A possible asset?"

 

Phil can't help but frown. "I do like you, from what little I know of you. I know it sounds a bit as if I know your entire life history, Clint, but the truth is that's just a file, just words. We only met yesterday. It's understandable you might feel some sense of attachment or debt to me, but I assure you that you owe me nothing."

 

“Okay.” Phil winces at the rawness in Clint's voice. “So I'm just a job, got it. What's your objective then, Agent.”

 

That stings, it really does, but he's a professional and so he answers, “I want you to have the time you need to recover. If you decide that you would like to accept the offer of a position within our organization, I would train you, and then we would have a meeting with the director who would have the final say on whether you were accepted as an asset or not. I can assure you that you would be, so long as you were trained by me.”

 

“And if I wanted someone else?”

 

“I would arrange that.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You heard me. Bullshit. You don't want me to have another trainer. Fuck, you want to be friends already. I'm a fucking sniper, Coulson. I read people, I figure out where they're going to be and when and I take them out. You think I can't read you because you're some big bad agent? Fuck you. You people are the easiest to read of all.”

 

Phil leans back further into the wall. “I never said that I didn't want to be friends, Clint. I just said you don't need to feel as if you owe me a debt. I do like what I know of you so far, but we've hardly spent time together and you're coming out of a deeply traumatic experience. I don't want to have you rush into even something as low-commitment as a friendship can be.”

 

“I can make my own fucking choices about what I do. I've dealt with shit before.”

 

“Oh?” Phil raises one eyebrow and knows that what he says next is bitchy at best but it's late and he's tired and it has been a hellish day and night. “Then take off the jesses, Hawkeye.”

 

Barton flinches like Phil has slapped him. He toys with the ends of the leather for a long, silent moment before locking his eyes on Phil's. There's a fire there that Phil wouldn't have guessed at. 

 

“Fuck you, Coulson.” And Barton snaps the leather from around his wrists.

 

* * * * * * 

 

The instant his wrists are bare, Clint loses the ability to breathe. It's like his head in in a howling void and he can't catch a grip without the one thing that has been his constant over the past months. Yes, he hates the leather ties, but they've practically been a comfort to him for so long now that without them he is floating away without any anchor or way back down.

 

Warmth wraps around the marks where the leather had been pressing into his skin. He shudders, blinks, and Coulson's face is _right there_. Clint tries to jerk back, regain some person space, but the grip on his wrists pulls him up short and just like that he's back in his body.

 

“ _Ssh_. Ssh. Now, while I approve wholeheartedly of any action you wish to take to rid yourself of things that have been used to torment you, you need to try and be patient with yourself, Clint. You've only been out for a few hours, and much of that has been spent sleeping. You need time to really come to terms with things and if, for now, you need something to anchor you, that's fine. It isn't shameful or weak or anything else like that you might be thinking.”

 

“And how would you know?” Clint's voice is wrecked and any time but now, he'd be embarrassed but Phil is holding his wrists, holding him here.

 

The smile he gets in reply is weak. “You think your the only one to deal with shit? I've spent more time than I care to admit to sleeping in my bathtub. There were several months in 2003 when I couldn't go outside at all because I was terrified of the sky. Trust me, Barton. You're not the alone when it comes to being a little fucked in the head.”

 

He knows it's a ploy, it's an obvious ploy to get him to start building a trust in this average looking man who saved him like a fucking action hero from a movie, and he can't help but fall for it. The idea that Phil has been trapped and shaking and so fucking scared of nothing that he can't help but want to curl into a ball forever is just reassuring in a way Clint can't quantify.

 

“Okay, so you're a resident of Fucked In the Head camp too. Great. Lovely. Can share time be over and we go back to sleep like this didn't happen?”

 

The searching look Phil gives him makes Clint shift in place, carpet rasping against the fabric of his sleep pants. The agent nods and, much to Clint's mingled shame and relief, loops the jesses back around his wrists with one hand before letting go with the other so he can tie them into place. The torn loops dangle sadly at the ends, and Clint knows he won't be able to have this tantrum too often without running out of usable length.

 

As if reading his mind, Phil offers, “We'll figure something out for this too. Maybe a watch and some sort of cuff? The R&D guys are always looking for new things to weaponize, it'll give them a challenge for all of an hour, I'm sure.”

 

Clint nods and wriggles back under the bed. This whole conversation has been exhausting, even more so than the rescue itself. Phil stands and nudges the tie under the bed in a tacit reminder before leaving the room. The silk is cool against his face as Clint ties it back in place before crossing his arms and legs again.

 

The carpet is comfortable and he sleeps again.

 

* * * * * *

 

Phil may or may not have less than half a clue as to how he is going to accomplish his goal of getting Barton more or less mentally stable and hopefully happy again. He's not what anyone could call experienced at the whole playing therapist deal but he has been on the other side enough to have at least a couple of ideas.

 

First though is to get Barton out of the blindfold and into the newly delivered shades R&D designed to filter light based on how widely dilated the pupil of the wear got. The wider the pupil, the darker the lens, or so Phil assumed. He'd tried them himself, not willing to give Barton something he wasn't willing to try himself, but hadn't really noticed anything special about them. Maybe that was the point though. Either way, had to be better than not seeing at all. Even if they were an outrageous shade of purple. 

 

He rapped his knuckles against the wood of Clint's door. After a long moment, he knocked again. 

 

“Yes?”

 

Phil smiled to himself. He'd never heard someone try so hard to sound confident and yet fail so badly. “The glasses from R&D got here earlier. Can I come in so we can get you out of that tie?”

 

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

 

Pushing the door open, he's momentarily taken aback by finding Clint still on the floor. He would've thought that sitting on the bed would be acceptable, even if it was clearly out for sleeping on.

 

“I'm going to walk over and crouch down in front of you. I need you to close your eyes for me so I can switch out the tie and glasses and then you should be good to go. R&D figures you'll need to wear the glasses full time for one or two weeks and say that it's a good idea to wear them any time you're outside or if your eyes start to feel tired or strained. Just to be on the safe side.”

 

Barton nods once, short and impatient. Phil follows through on his word, crouching before Barton and sliding the silk free. He's quite impressed that the tie stayed on all night, he'd half expected to come in to find it on the opposite side of the room to Barton.

 

Sliding the glasses into place feels intimate, and Phil can almost feel the idea of how to help Clint shift in his head. He'd thought of the younger man as a kid before, but this close, he can see that they can't be more than five years apart. Clint's been broken down, trained to react to pain and that his actions can only bring more pain upon him. If Phil wants to get someone who can work as an asset of SHIELD he needs to take back all the things that Clint currently associates negative consequences with and make them positive. 

 

If he wants it to work, he'll have to start small though. 

 

“Okay, when you're ready, open your eyes, and let me know how it is. R&D are good, but they're not infallible.”

 

As Clint opens his eyes, Phil only manages a quick glimpse before the lenses go nearly opaque.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The thing Clint keeps coming back to, even as he trails around the house like a lost puppy, is just how kind Phil's face is. His eyes are soft and has laugh lines that seem to belie Phil's serious nature. It's not a big house and Clint knows he could go watch TV or something but he's used to someone else telling him what to do and when to do it. If he's honest, being left completely to his own devices make him feel like his skin is crawling.

 

Phil sighs and turns towards him. He can't help but curl into himself a little, he doesn't think Coulson would hurt him, but he also feels like he's being disappointing. 

 

“Clint, would you like to help me make breakfast?”

 

His throat feels like it's closed with fear, which is a stupid reaction and so he's going to ignore it. He trails Phil into the kitchen. Coulson puts him in charge of toast and Clint's hands are shaking as he depresses the lever. 

 

 _If you're having a stroke, sometimes a symptom is smelling burnt toast._ He thinks. He doesn't burn the toast, which is good, but the sound of the knife scraping butter over the bread feels like it's rasping against the raw edges of his nerves.

 

“That's perfect, Clint. Go ahead and put it on the table when you've done that last piece.”

 

Phil's voice startles him for a second, and when his words sink in, Clint feels his eyes well with tears behind his glasses. He breathes carefully through his nose and finishes with the piece of bread he'd been buttering but can't force himself to move away from the support of the counter. It feels pathetic but he can't honestly remember the last time he'd been told he'd done a good job. Maybe back in the circus when he'd pulled a particularly impressive trick? Definitely not since he'd left and that had been what, seven years ago now?

 

A hand coming down on his shoulder shocks him out of his thoughts. He jerks around, hands coming up defensively, still holding the butter knife. Phil wraps a hand around his, carefully pulling the knife from him.

 

“Come on, breakfast. I made scrambled eggs, I hope that's alright?”

 

Clint nods shakily and falls bonelessly into his chair. Breakfast. He can handle breakfast. Maybe.

 

* * * * * * 

 

Watching Clint eat is a small exercise in mental anguish for Phil. He eats like most people who've grown up not expecting to be able to peacefully finish their meals, arm curled around his plate, eyes darting up to check on Phil's position as if his plate might be taken at any moment. Phil eats as slowly as he can, the last thing he wants is to finish before Clint does.

 

After breakfast, Phil gives Clint as many easily accomplished little chores as he can think up, praising him after he completes each one. With every “Good job” and “thanks, you're a great help,” Clint looks more confused and curls further into himself. It's hurting Phil to watch, but he hopes that eventually it will sink in that he's genuinely pleased.

 

It's nearly time for bed when Clint snaps.

 

“Will you just cut this bullshit? I don't get your game here but seriously, good job on the driving me crazy front.”

 

Phil blinks. “I'm sorry?”

 

“Look, I know you said you wouldn't hurt me and that you wanted me to be an asset and get better and all that crap. I just need you to not lie to me like that anymore okay? I've had a lot of it and any other day I could put up with it but today, just not today, okay?”

 

Sighing, Phil says, “Follow me.” and heads back towards his bedroom. Clint shuffles along behind, and the quiet whimpering noises he's making are breaking Phil's heart but this has to be done if Clint is going to ever feel comfortable in Phil's presence.

 

When they get to his room, Phil sits at the very edge of his bed and Clint stands in front of him in what is nearly a perfect parade rest position. “Come here, Clint.” He pulls Clint down over his lap, like a child ready for a spanking, and says, “If you ask for punishment, I won't give it to you. I will give you discipline, if that's what you need. I know you probably can't distinguish between the two right now, but there is a difference. And I'm going to need you to give me a reason, tell me what you've done to deserve it. I will give you a correction that fits what you've done, accepted?”

 

Clint's voice is shaking. “Okay. I, uh, I didn't do the bread right. I mean, I made the toast but it just, it wasn't right. Some of the pieces didn't have enough butter and then that one had way too much.”

 

Phil nods slowly. From Clint's view he supposes that not having the butter be perfectly even and the one piece was a little burnt would be more than enough to warrant punishment. He rubs a hand gently across the swell of Clint's ass. “Anything else?”

 

“Uh... no?”

 

“Okay then.” And without any warning, Phil draws his hand back and gives Clint a sharp whack. It's through the fabric of his pants but it still makes him jump and yelp. After three more, Phil stops and rubs his hand up and down Clint's spine, soothing him.

 

“Is that better?”

 

Clint nods against his thigh, but makes no move to get up. Phil doesn't say anything more, just continues to rub Clint's back as tears soak into the fabric of his trousers.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's another few days of relative peace before things come to another boiling point. Clint has been having nightmares every night and helping Coulson with silly little things during the day. Before bed, if Coulson can see Clint's logic, there's discipline and that's quickly becoming a problem.

 

Back before, well, even before he was captured Clint wasn't one for long term commitments. He'd fuck the same person occasionally, but usually it was someone new in every town as the circus blew through. And yeah, he'd liked it rough, loved being pinned and held by his lover of the moment and made to feel it through the next day or two. And Phil spanking him like he's a naughty child is starting to hit more and more that side of his brain that connects a certain kind of roughness to the best kind of pleasure.

 

He's learning to trust Phil, getting to know him more each day, but a few days doesn't erase what happened while he was captive. Any time he starts to think more seriously about sex, he feels dirty, like a slut, a used up whore. He's tried jerking off in the shower and couldn't even get hard before he had to throw back the curtain and vomit noisily into the toilet.

 

Maybe he should just do it, he thinks more than once. Just strip down and open himself up, walk into Phil's room and slide down onto the cock he can't stop thinking about. Of course, that's assuming Phil wants him at all, which is probably delusional at best. So really, now that he thinks about it (again and again and again), it's best to just keep on doing nothing at all and hoping that these stupid feelings fade with time.

 

He wanders through the house feeling like the ghost of himself. He stil zeroes in on things, still has that sniper focus, but it's not targets now, it's the weave of the fabric on the couch or the way a tree limb is moving outside the window. If he runs into Phil it starts the rebounding thoughts of sex, sex, sex, but he can't do anything about it. It doesn't arouse him and the one time he tried to bring himself off in the shower he had to whip the curtain back to be sick into the toilet.

 

Whatever it is Phil is trying to do to heal him enough to be an agent or asset or whatever he said in the helicopter, isn't working.

 

He's in the spare bedroom Phil is letting him use, gathering up the small amount of dirty laundry he's managed to generate when it happens. It's as he's turning to leave for the laundry room when Phil materializes in the doorway. His mouth is open like he's about to say something, but his jaw snaps shut as Clint's reaction registers. He stands stock still and pale, hands clutching the basket of dirty clothes so tightly his knuckles are white, panting out short breaths.

 

"Sorry," Phil says after a moment. "I didn't mean to startle you."

 

“S'ok. M'fine.”

 

It's fairly obvious that he's not, but for a moment he thinks that Phil is going to accept the lie and let it go. 

 

“No. You're not, and I'm not enough help. We need to start getting you out of the house. The director has offered the services of SHIELD's psychology department.”

 

“I don't want fucking therapy.” Clint spits out.

 

"Clint, I'm not a doctor," Phil tries to reason. "You were hurt, badly, and I can't fix it on my own. Believe me when I say that I wish I could, more than anything. I've been trying my best, but I'm out of ideas on what I can do to help and you've still got a long way to go before you're back on top of your game."

 

“Back on my game? You know what, fuck you, Phil. I can still make any shot, that's not something they took from me.”

 

“No, but that doesn't change the fact that you were hurt by them and they did take things from you.”

 

“Hah. Take things. I was raped, okay, they raped me and I didn't want it and yes, that fucking sucks, but I'm not going to go spill my guts to some quack with a fancy-ass bit of paper that just wants me to 'know that it wasn't my fault'. I've been through that song and dance before and it's nothing but a fucking waste of time. You want to make me better? Bend me over and fuck me until I beg you to stop and then actually stop. Maybe that'll help better than all this positive reinforcement bullshit you've been trying to pull like I'm a fucking dog.”

 

"Clint," Phil says, and it's forceful. Clint has never heard Phil's voice this harsh. "I'm not going to 'fuck you until you beg'. That would be about as helpful as your attitude."

 

Clint deflates slightly, half-way dropping the laundry basket so it dangles from one hand, dirty socks tumbling out onto the carpet. “Yeah, well. You're probably right. And who'd wanna fuck me anyways? Damaged goods, right? And can you believe I used to really like it rough? I was into all sorts of kinky shit and now the thought of half of it makes me feel like I'm trying to breath through molasses.”

 

"You're missing my point, here," Phil sighs with a hand rubbing his temple.

 

"Nope, got that one loud and clear. Forget fucking me 'til I beg, you wouldn't fuck me _if_ I begged."

 

"Is that what you're doing, Clint?"

 

“Maybe it is, Phil.” He drops the laundry basket the rest of the way to the floor and stalks forward until he's a hairsbreadth away from Phil. Dropping down to his knees, he lowers his voices, letting it go deep and gravelly in the way that has always, always, guaranteed he's not going to be heading home alone. “Wouldn't you please let me suck your cock, please let me take it deep down and in and then open myself up while you watch? Won't you please, please bend me over the edge of the bed and hold the ends of the jesses and plow into me until I scream with how good it is?”

 

Phil sighs heavily. This conversation isn't something that he's going to be able to salvage, and since he isn't interested in sitting here arguing it all night, he decides on impulse to take the low road. He palms Clint's hip, gently but quickly enough that there's no sense of anticipation or a chance for Clint to move away. The reaction takes only a split second, every muscle going rigid and Clint's eyes going wide and dark with terror.

 

“This is why, Clint. You don't actually want to have sex with me. You want to feel like you're taking back power, and maybe a little like you're repaying some kind of debt you feel you owe me for getting you out of there. Try and believe me when I say that you don't owe me, and that sleeping with me isn't going to make you feel better. When you've had a chance to heal and we both have discussed it before hand and are in agreement, we can revisit the issue, alright?” He lifts his hand and Clint skitters backwards until his back is pressed into the wall.

 

“Uh. Yeah. Sounds like a plan.”

 

When the silence starts to drag Phil pulls a card he had been hoping to hold onto for a while longer. “Would you like to go to the range? I think the Director has given you limited access and I may have acquired a bow as a bribe before we knew that you'd been captured.”

 

The way Clint's entire face lights up with joy chokes the air out of Phil. He follows when Barton practically bolts for the door, a faint crease of worry between his brows. While it's usual for him to befriend the agents under his command, and while it's also true that Barton's is a special case, Phil can't help the sinking sensation that says he's going to be in over his head before long.

 

* * * * * * 

 

When they get to the range, it takes Phil longer than it should to suss out the real reason Barton goes quiet. At first he thinks it's because this is the first interaction Barton has had since his rescue with people who aren't Phil. Greeting those he knows and gently introducing them to Barton makes things worse. At a bit of a loss, he sets Barton up with a bow and a lane and fires off a text to Sitwell calling for backup.

 

And Jasper doesn't disappoint. The first thing out of his mouth isn't 'hello', it's “That is one jealous little bird you've caught yourself, Phil.”

 

“Jealous?” He raises an eyebrow, but now that it's been pointed out, that's exactly what this is.

 

“Oh yeah. He obviously skipped kindergarten the day they talked about sharing toys with other kids because he does not like anyone else being near you, much less me being here talking to you.”

 

Clint has tensed up and while his arrows are still perfectly on target, it's clear to anyone with the training to see it that his attention is barely held by the actions of his body. Sitwell twists just enough to make their conversation seem more intimate and Barton's jaw clenches so hard the muscle starts to tic.

 

“So. How're you going to handle this one?”

 

What Phil should do now is say that he's going to tell Fury that this part of the mission is compromised and that Clint either needs to be sent to another agent or to psych. What he should do is follow procedure and his training. 

 

“I'm going to talk to him about it when we get back to the safe house.”

 

“Yeah, and say what?”

 

That's a good question. Phil wishes he knew the answer.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Clint knows something is off. He's not sure what. Even before his capture he wasn't exactly a social butterfly and now his ability to read people seems to have taken quite a knock. Still, he'd have to be a rock to not notice that Phil has been glancing at him out of the corner of his eye the whole drive back to the safe house. It's getting to be more than a little annoying.

 

“What?”

 

“I'm sorry?” And there's Phil whipping out the placid agent-voice that Clint hasn't heard since his rescue.

 

“You keep fucking staring at me and it's starting to freak me out so why don't you tell me why you're suddenly being such a creeper?”

 

Phil's ears go pink and Clint has to take a second to appreciate that he, Clint “The Amazing Hawkeye” Barton, just made a super secret agent blush. “It's just something Jasper said while we were at the range.”

 

“Jasper is your buddy I take it?”

 

“He's the one I was talking to yes. We were recruited around the same time.”

 

“And what'd he say that's made you stare at me like I've got two heads?”

 

“He said you were jealous.”

 

“Jealous? Jealous of what? Other people are allowed to fucking talk to you without my being jealous. And besides, that's a pretty stupid thing to be jealous of anyways.” As they pull into the dim garage of the safe house, Clint grimaces. The look Phil shoots him as he kills the engine just confirms it, that was way too much denial to be believable. “Okay, so maybe I was a little jealous. But you've said you won't fuck me and I can accept that. We can just be friends, whatever. I'm an adult and can deal with it, but it's just going to take me a little time to get over it.”

 

“You really feel that strongly about it?”

 

“Well, yeah.” Clint had thought that was pretty obvious what with him practically begging Phil to bend him over and make him scream in the good way. “I mean, obviously after last time things would have to go a lot slower than I'd been hoping for, but that doesn't mean I don't want it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, oh.”

 

Sitting in the dark car starts to feel claustrophobic after that, so Clint bounds out and into the house, trusting that Phil will follow in his own time. 

 

* * * * * * 

 

They don't bring it up again for several weeks. During that time, Phil admits that he needs outside help and Clint grudgingly agrees to go to therapy three times a week. At first it's a fight and everything seems to be getting worse instead of better, but then Phil switches him to the same therapist that Phil talks to and things start to click into place.

 

He still trusts only Phil, and even then prefers to be able to anticipate any incoming touches, so casual pats on the arm or shoulder for a particularly good shot or in thanks for helping with the laundry tend to be very slow and deliberate. Phil's the only one who can touch him at all without setting his heart racing and his vision being over laid with the muted grey concrete of the cell, but they're working on that with both his therapist and Sitwell, who as it turns out is a stand up guy.

 

When the topic of sex does come up again, it's because of a stupid joke that Clint makes without even thinking. Phil says “According to your file, your birthday is next month.”

 

“And?”

 

“Traditionally in this country, birthdays are greeted by friends giving gifts to the person whose birthday it is. You've got a bow and SHIELD is always happy to supply you with arrows so outside of that I'm at a loss for what you would want as a gift.”

 

“How about birthday sex?” Even as the words leave his mouth, Clint wants to swallow them back down. It isn't that he doesn't want to have sex with Phil. It's more that he's realized that he's not the only one who has to accept that he did suffer trauma and has to heal enough to move beyond it. Phil was traumatized in his own way, being the one to rescue Clint and to try and piece back together the nearly shattered person he'd become.

 

“Alright.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said, alright. I will have sex with you on your birthday, if a few conditions are agreed upon and met.”

 

“Uh, sure. What conditions?” Clint is in shock. He has to be. Or hallucinating. That's the only explanation for why this is actually happening.

 

“One, I will only have sex with you once you are comfortable enough to take the jesses off.” Clint glances guiltily at the thin leather bands around his wrists. They aren't the original ones from his captivity, but he hasn't felt comfortable without something around his wrists. His therapist has been after him to try and little time each day without them but he's been slacking.

 

“For the whole day or just during sex?”

 

“While I would prefer the whole day, I will agree that just during sex fills the requirements.”

 

“Okay then,” He can do that. “I can do that.” He hopes. “What's the second condition?”

 

“Second, and I won't say this one is a deal breaker, but I would much prefer to be the one on the, shall we say, receiving end this time.”

 

Clint takes a moment to contemplate the mental image of Phil, spread out beneath him, panting and vulnerable and leaking pre-cum all across his stomach, and has to swallow harshly. “Sounds fine to me. Anything else?”

 

“I want a safe word.”

 

“What, like they use in kinky shit?”

 

“Exactly like that. I want either one of us to be able to call a halt at any point in proceedings. If either one of us feels uncomfortable or starts to panic, having a clear signal for stopping that is pre-agreed upon is the best way-”

 

“Okay, okay, I'm sold. What were you thinking?”

 

“For the safe word?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I thought it would be easiest to just go with the standard green, yellow, and red. Green for 'all's fine keep going', yellow for 'slow down I need a minute but want to continue', and red for 'I need to stop right now'.”

 

“Sounds good to me.” Clint is a little breathless. He's got a month to build up his tolerance for not having the jesses on and then, well then he gets to unwrap the best present of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the fantasy part of recovery! Magically Clint is nearly over being captured and tortured for several months including being sexually assaulted more than once. Obviously, this recovery time is incredibly unrealistic, even with therapy. Please, for the love of all good things in the universe, don't take any of this for being accurate in reality or in any way applicable to any situation that this may have slightly in common with actual real life situations and experiences.
> 
> There's only one chapter left to go of this. That chapter will be full of sex. Maybe even a little healing!cock. I haven't decided yet, but it's a trope begging me to use it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not super thrilled with this chapter. It's the smut conclusion but I just haven't been in the mood to write it. I might come back and try and rewrite it later.

Pushing into Phil is terrifying. It doesn't matter, in that moment, that they have all sorts of signals and panic words and motions for if Clint's hearing aides spontaneously stop working. It doesn't matter that he's just watched Phil finger himself carefully open or that it was one of the hottest things Clint's ever seen. What matters is that he's doing something that is wired into his brain as something that hurts the other person. What matters is that he absolutely doesn't want to hurt Phil the way he was hurt.

 

When Phil groans beneath him, Clint freezes, hands spasming where he's gripping Phil's hips. The other man looks up at him and sighs gently, caressing Clint's cheek. “No, don't worry I'm fine. That was a good noise, it feels good.”

 

Clint swallows heavily before cautiously rolling his hips in a shallow thrust. “Ah, god, that's great Clint. Just like that.” He thrusts again and Phil arches to meet him. It's all slow, like time has been dipped in molasses, but that's good. Clint hasn't had slow and good for a long time.

 

The silky clench around his cock, dragging over sensitive nerve endings, leaves him shuddering. Phil wraps his legs around Clint's waist, dragging him closer even as he arches again, encouraging Clint to pick up the pace and seek his pleasure. Phil murmurs gentle half-words and Clint can feel his climax start to build in the base of his spine. It radiates out, a clenching along the hard muscles of his legs, tightening in his balls and with a few strong pumps he's coming into Phil and it's like he's never had it before. It's euphoric and his muscles start to shake even as he eases out and slumps to the side so as not to crush Phil.

 

Not to crush Phil who hasn't come, and as soon as Clint sees he's lost from the happy glow he'd managed to achieve. “You didn't...did I do something wrong?”

 

“No, please don't think that, you were wonderful. I enjoyed every second of that.”

 

“Then why...”

 

“Sex where the people involved come at the same time and then stare blissfully at each other in the post-coital cool down is almost entirely reserved for the realm of truly unrealistic porn.”

 

“Oh. But, I'd still like to see you.”

 

Phil gently cups one of Clint's hands in his own. “Well, if you wouldn't mind me borrowing this for a moment, I don't anticipate that being a request I can't fulfil.”

 

He wraps Clint's hand around his cock and guides him into a rhythm of short, fast strokes. Phil's hand stay intertwined and it only takes a few moments until his back is bowing up and he's spilling into their combined fist.

 

After cleaning them both up, Phil tucks himself alongside Clint in the bed, tugging one of the archer's strong arms to wrap around his waist, holding him close. Clint knows he has a long way to go still, but here in bed with Phil, it doesn't seem that far after all.


End file.
